Desperation
by AlternativeAlias
Summary: M/M slash. Nick is getting desperate, and needs to vent his frustration somewhere. The options are limited, and he decides to work with what he's got...
1. Ch1 x Desperation

_Authors Note: This is a one shot slash fic. There will be no follow-up chapters._

**DESPERATION**

He'd been desperate, the gambler told himself. He repeated this mantra over and over in his head, as if saying it enough times made the truth of the words more potent.

_Desperation does strange things to a guy. That's all it was. Just desperation._

The hick, luckily, hadn't broached the subject with him since the encounter, though Nick had noticed that the younger man found it difficult to keep eye-contact with him for most of the day. He would either quickly preoccupy himself with some other task, such as checking over his shotgun, or become very flushed in the face, to the point where Rochelle once asked if the young man was feeling okay, fearing he had a fever.

They'd been on the road for almost two weeks. They'd battled their way through the hotel, swamp, mall, hospital. They'd almost lost their lives crossing that damn bridge, only to make it too late, and have the chopper at the other end take off before they could make it, no doubt assuming them to be dead. The abandonment had threatened to quash what little hope the four had managed to maintain throughout their journey, but somehow they continued on together, staying on the move with no real plan other than to survive.

It was a lot of stress to put a guy under, not that Nick was unused to stress. He'd had a high-maintenance wife for just over three years, plus a two year prison sentence. Of the two, he wasn't entirely sure which situation he'd count as the more stressful. Probably the former, he concluded. It was hell to be that close to something beautiful, knowing that her damn chastity belt would only come off with regular payments in one hundred dollar bills. He hadn't been made of money, and what he did have was quickly squandered by his bitch of an ex. It was part of the reason he'd ended up behind bars, but that was another story entirely.

True, neither of these circumstances quite equated to the strain of being thrown into a zombie apocalypse, but they served to illustrate the fact that Nick wasn't some hopeless city boy who had no idea how to act under pressure. He vented his emotions and frustration in harsh, quick-witted words, in violence, and in jumping the hick.

The last one had come as a surprise even to him, in all honesty. He'd been self-servicing since all the shit began, and toyed with the idea of trying it on with Rochelle more than once, but every flirtacious comment had been so swiftly thrown back in his face without so much as an eyelid bat, that Nick knew she was immune to his charms. Be that as it may, he'd never really planned to go after Ellis as an alternative. It just... happened. He was, after all, a desperate man.

The encounter itself was something of a blur, ingrained in the gamblers memory as a mass of pleasure and confusion, with no real recall of every moment of his assault on the Georgian, but a very strong memory of how good it had all felt. Well, it had been Ellis' damn fault anyway, Nick argued with himself, remembering how the four of them had split into the two rooms, with Rochelle and Coach taking the master suite, leaving hick and slick to take what had to be the children's room of the house they'd taken refuge in, the small room containing two single beds on opposite walls.

They would have got to bed just fine if Ellis hadn't called dibs on the lukewarm shower across the hall. Hadn't come back in with his clothes slung over his forearm, and nothing but a towel hanging low around his hips as water glistened upon his skin and dripped from his hair. What the fuck did he expect? Nick wasn't gay by a long shot, but he was not adverse to getting his kicks from unorthodox sources if the situation called for it. And damn, the situation had called for it right then.

The hick had struggled at first, but Nick had expected that as he'd all but leapt up from his seated position on the bed he'd claimed as his own, pushed the young man backwards against the wardrobe, and forced him into a rough kiss. Ellis had been confused, fighting the older man at first, but a quick utter of "Shut up. They'll hear you," from the gambler had been all that was needed to silence his frantic questioning, and had the added bonus of stilling his struggling arms, too. It was pretty dark, not counting the dim streetlight that filtered through the window, the bulb in the room having blown before their arrived, and both agreeing that it wasn't really necessary to try and replace it. They could see well enough with the street lamp outside giving the room a faint glow, and the room was so small that they'd notice immediately if they weren't alone.

Yes, the half-light made everything much easier, for the hick at least. Nick couldn't care less right then and there whether they'd been in pitch black or searing sunlight. He'd had a taste of intimacy again, and he had to see it through, no matter what. It took some coaxing (neck kisses, primarily) before Ellis would finally let the man pull away the towel that still protected his decency from waist down, and he probably could have stopped Nick from forcing him backwards onto the bed if he really tried.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the hick had never been intimate with a guy before, but what did that matter? It was for Nick's benefit that he was doing this, and he didn't care much if the pleasure was mutual. He didn't go out of his way to make it _un_pleasant for the young man, but didn't make much effort to ensure it was as painless as possible for him, either. Considering his resources, he told himself that there wasn't much he could have done, even if he wanted to. Spit was far from the best lubricant, but it was a damn sight better than riding dry.

It was quick, and it was sloppy, but goddamnit it, it had been exactly what Nick needed. For a man that often prided himself on how long he could fuck for, he didn't give the slightest ounce of care at how quickly he'd climaxed with the hick. He'd lasted longer than the younger male, at least, who seemed to handle the pain much easier than Nick had expected. What Ellis clearly hadn't expected was that, once Nick had taken several panting moments to regain his breath, he swiftly removed himself from the hick without warning, eliciting a yelp of surprise from the young man. That was that. Nick hadn't said a word as he climbed back into his boxer shorts and slacks, pulling back on his stained blue shirt and doing up a few of the buttons before wordlessly collapsing onto his own bed, facing the wall. Ellis didn't move for some time, but eventually Nick could hear him quietly shuffling around behind him, the slow, soft movements betraying him as getting dressed in the most ginger of manners possible, the after-pain probably having settled in quite truly by now. Perhaps Nick should have felt a little guilty for that.

He didn't.

He'd been desperate, and Overalls had waltzed in half-naked and covered in water. The kid was asking for it, really. This was what Nick told himself, at least. _I was desperate. He was the easy way to fix that. _

_Desperation. That's all it was._

This was the mantra that finally sent Nick to sleep, leaving a very confused Ellis only a few feet away from him , laid awake throughout the night as he tried to make sense of what just happened, and why he'd allowed it.


	2. Ch2 x Confusion

_Authors Note: I know I said this was a one-shot, but I wanted to follow it up. I have no idea how many parts I'll write to this, so... don't expect some huge fanfic to come out of it or anything!_

**CONFUSION**

Ellis was an easy and heavy sleeper. He'd been told this for years, from his mom telling all her friends how soundly her baby boy used to sleep, to his teen years where getting him to wake up in the morning was a chore. Even at work, on slow days, Dave would have to shake his shoulders pretty roughly if he dozed off in the afternoon sun.

So why was he having such trouble sleeping now?

Of course, he knew the answer. It was pretty obvious what occurrence that day was keeping him awake. It wasn't the smoker whose head he'd practically cleaved in two with a machete. It wasn't Ro's awkward, almost pitying smile when Ellis had mentioned seeing his mom again. No, while these things were the sorts that would play in his mind before going to sleep, it wasn't what kept him awake this time. Keeping him awake on that particular night was Nick.

Not literally, as Nick was already on his own bed, a mere metre or two away, and rolled to face the wall with his back to the Georgian, making it abundantly clear that he had no interest in talking. Talking had apparently been the _last_ thing on the gamblers mind that evening, Ellis fighting with himself, not sure if he wanted to mentally examine the happenings of that evening, or try to force them so deep into his subconscious that he forgot altogether.

As much as forgetting the encounter might have made sleeping easier, it was an impossible task, and soon the hick had given up trying it altogether, and laid on his back to stare up at the stipple-painted ceiling, the little lumps and bumps in the paint casting tiny shadows across his vision, sourced from the street light outside the window. His mind was a swirling mass of questions, one pushing its way to the forefront of his mind, before being shoved aside before he had a chance to really examine it, replaced with a new question.

Was Nick gay? Did this make _Ellis _gay? Was it going to hurt this much tomorrow? Was he bleeding? Should he go wash up? Should he try to say something to the gambler? Was he meant to do something once they'd finished? Was Nick mad at him?

All these questions floated around his head, but one in particular kept surfacing more than the others, and eventually he was able to calm his mind enough to settle on this one query: _Why didn't I stop him?_

He could have done so with ease. Nick wasn't weak, but he didn't have the brute strength that Ellis possessed. Hell, he and Keith used to throw tyres across the yard just for fun, but he couldn't imagine Nick being able to lob one any further than a couple of metres, tops. Had he wanted to, the mechanic could have pinned Nick's arms, shoved him away, or even punched him. So why hadn't he? He'd struggled, that was for sure. It was the natural reaction when someone was suddenly upon you to struggle against them, especially with how little he'd expected the attack! The day had been a reasonably normal one, by most counts, and Nick had certainly given no indication that he was planning something, or any unusual thoughts about the hick were going through his mind.

He wondered if Nick had been drinking (Nick said and did strange things on the two occasions the group had seen him drunk), but they'd found no alcohol in the house, and he didn't smell of spirits. No, his mouth had definitely tasted of cigarettes, and little else. Ellis cringed a little as he realised he could perfectly recall the taste of Nick's _mouth_, the feel of his tongue, the way his teeth bit firmly on Ellis' lips, but not hard enough to break skin. A shiver ran up the young mans spine, and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

He could have fought, and didn't. Did he regret that? Honestly, he didn't know. Ellis wasn't a sex addict like some of his guy friends were, and he could handle the down-time between girlfriends with reasonable ease... but even he had to admit that things were getting a bit tense in that department. But what were his options? Rochelle was more a sister to him than anything, so completely off-limits. Zoey was... Zoey was an angel. He could happily see himself getting married to a girl that pretty and smart, had fate allowed it. But she was gone, having left with her two friends, and the likeliness of seeing her again was low. That left Ellis with no options, or so he had thought. Clearly Nick had come to the same conclusion, and decided to play the game with a different set of rules.

The one major fact that Ellis didn't want to admit, to himself or to Nick, was that he had _enjoyed_ what happened. Not at first. No, at first, it was awkward, and painful. You didn't have to be a homo to know that sex with a guy will hurt the first time, but it took him by surprise nevertheless. He'd let Nick lead, and didn't question their positioning one bit. Despite being the stockier and stronger of the two, Ellis just couldn't imagine their situation happening the other way around. After a while, however, despite the friction teetering on the edge of painful as Nick's spit slowly wore aware, the pain became dull in place of the weird sense of pleasure that came with the act. Was it the sex, or the way Nick had gripped to him, panting and grunting, saying Ellis' name. Twice, in fact. Ellis could recall perfectly how the strained word had fallen from the gamblers mouth mid-breath.

The climax was good. Of _course_ it was. But then, so was the thirty seconds or so after that, where Nick had collapsed onto Ellis' chest, and the Georgian had allowed his hands to rest on the mans lower back, almost an embrace, but not quite. He had to resist the urge to hold on when Nick finally pulled away (none to gently either), as he figured the gambler was far from the cuddling type. A shame. Ellis really liked cuddling.

He laid there and waited. Waited for Nick to do or say something. No such moment came. The man threw on half his clothes, collapsed to his own bed, and fell asleep. In shock, Ellis didn't move, aside from pulling the blanket over his lower half as soon as Nick had left him, covering himself with a flush to his cheeks that was invisible in the dimly lit room. Was... that it? Not even an arrogant 'thank you'? No explanation? Ellis lay stunned, finally forcing himself to quietly push the blanket away from him, wincing and taking a sharp inhale as he sat up, pain shooting through his lower body. He hoped he wasn't walking funny tomorrow. Everyone always said you can tell when a guy had been screwed by another guy because he walks funny, though the Georgian had never seen it first hand. Maybe it was a rumour. Keith had made jokes about it a few times.

He carefully got to his feet, gingerly as possible so as to cause himself the least amount of aches and pains. He retrieved his clothes from where he'd dropped them, only pulling on his boxer shorts and t-shirt before giving up, gently flopping back to the mattress with a sigh, laying himself back under the blankets.

_Tomorrow's gunna be awkward..._he thought to himself, before accepting he had a long night of restlessness ahead of him, and reluctantly began to explore all the questions floating around his head.

Even as the sun began to rise, most of them remained unanswered.


	3. Ch3 x Evaluation

_Authors Note: I'm gonna continue with this back-and-forth between Nick and Ellis' POV's, I think. It's something I haven't really done before, and I'm kind of enjoying it 8D_

**EVALUATION**

Empty.

Nick didn't know what he'd expected to see as he rolled over the following morning, light from the uncovered window filtering easily into the room, burning through his eyelids and forcing him to blearily blink his vision into focus. The kid had clearly got up some time before, made his bed (it was strange to think of Ellis as the kind of guy who tidily made his bed each morning), and had gone to meet with Ro or Coach. He could faintly hear the hick's voice, though not well enough to make out the words, so at least he knew all was well in the house.

It was a relief, really, to wake up in the room alone. The previous night had been a real spur-of-the-moment event, and now they'd have to deal with whatever consequences came of it. When it came to sex, Nick had an unfortunate habit of acting without forethought, which resulted in more than a few sticky situations for him to talk his way out of in the past, and a few lessons that had been learned the hard way. After that one time in Reno, he learned to always remember your partner's name after you screwed them, unless you wanted a sharp knee to the balls.

Ellis' towel was hung over the end of the bed, his clothes and boots gone. Nick groaned his way from the blankets, body aching profusely with a dull throb that came from the day upon day of survival. It was improved by last night's events, he admitted, as the relief had been much-needed, and took some of the weight of their situation from his mind. Funny how the world seemed that much simpler when you had someone to fuck, Nick thought to himself with a smirk. A smirk which quickly fell from his lips, when he realised he was already assuming this was going to happen again. That he and Overalls would fall into some kind of regular pattern of the kid bending over whenever Nick needed him to.

_It was a one off, _he reminded himself sharply. _A desperate one-off. Come on, Nicholas. You can do better than __him._

Could he, though? _Really? _Pickings for sexual partners were slim, to the point of near non-existence. He could try harder with Rochelle, he supposed... but for some strange reason, he couldn't help but think he'd prefer the Georgian mechanic over the reporter from Ohio. Why? He wasn't sure himself, considering the reasons in his own mind as he heaved himself to his feet, crossing the short distance to grab the hick's towel from the end of the bed.

He'd already successfully made a move on Ellis, and the kid ended up being quite... _receptive _to what was going on. He'd also seem embarrassed by it, meaning he wasn't going to go talking about it with anyone, thus keeping the dynamic of the group intact. He wasn't going to get pregnant; an experience which Nick _definitely _didn't want to have to go through again, and especially not in the goddamn zombie apocalypse. He tried to argue to himself that Ellis was the _logical_ choice. The easier choice. Whether he was being honest with himself or not was another matter. Nick found lying an easy thing to do, even to himself.

Towel in hand, he left the room, ignoring the mingled voices downstairs as he crossed the hallway to the bathroom, closing the door a little louder than needed, just so they knew he was still alive. The room was small, but reasonably clean, the house having survived the apocalypse well so far. The small town they'd found themselves in must have evacuated quickly, as there were few of the shambling undead here, and they'd yet to see one of the special infected. The interiors of the houses all showed signs of having been abandoned in a hurry, but apart from that, they appeared to be untouched. Being able to sleep in a house not covered in blood and debris was a small return to normality they'd all been thankful for. Dropping the towel on top of the closed toilet seat, Nick began to peel his clothes from his skin, catching sight of his haggard face in the mirror. He'd seen better days. _I've also seen worse_, he reminded himself, and set to work.

When he finally made his way down the staircase that led from the upstairs hallway straight into the living room, he was greeted with a low whistle from Rochelle, followed by a chuckle. "Someone looks better when they're cleaned up!" she says, looking up at him from her cross-legged position by the coffee table that sat in the middle of the room. "...Shame the suit doesn't wash up quite so well."

Nick gave a sarcastic grin in response, dropping it quickly and instead surveying the room. The state of his suit, his best suit, irked him to no end, but he had a feeling that no amount of detergent would ever get it back to pristine white again. True, he could swap out for different clothes found in one of the houses, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Sentimental value, he supposed, and he appeared to not be the only one. None of the group had changed their outfits (though the bloodstains on Coach and Rochelle's closing seemed to have faded significantly. Had she washed them?). The other three had been up for some time, Rochelle now having returned her attention to a map spread out on the coffee table in front of her, Coach sat in a large armchair, head leant back as he gave a nod good morning to the gambler, before letting his eyes close, clearly just enjoying the opportunity to relax, for once. Ellis was across the other side of the room, sat right in the middle of a three-person couch, the entire weapons cache of their team spread out on either side of him as he went over the guns, checking, cleaning and reloading them each in turn.

Ellis had been the only one not to acknowledge Nick as he'd entered the room; something neither Ro or Coach seemed to take notice of, but was clear as day to Nick. The youngest of them just continued to run the kitchen cloth in his hand over the shotgun half-resting in his lap, the tension in his jaw so tight it was visible, if you cared to look. He stared so hard at the gun as he worked, it was little surprise he didn't burn a hole through it.

_At least he hasn't said anything._

It was clear from their usual welcomes that neither Rochelle or Coach had any idea what they'd missed on the previous night, and Nick would rather have it kept that way. Rolling his eyes at the hick, Nick walked on through and made his way to the kitchen. The only thing that could make sex better was following it up with a shower, strong coffee and a cigarette the following morning. He intended to fulfil this need as soon as he could.

Was he just imagining the intense look Ellis had been giving the shotgun shifting to glance furtively at Nick's back as he left the room? Probably.


	4. Ch4 x Distraction

_Authors Note: Enjoying so far? Let me know in the reviews!_

**DISTRACTION**

Ellis had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but his eyes were so heavy he supposed it couldn't have been long. The sun was still low in the sky, the mechanic guessing it was before seven in the morning, and pale light had begun to fill the room. The first thing he did was glance over at his roommate, still sound asleep and breathing deeply to prove it. The fact that Nick was a quiet sleeper was some small relief, at least. Keith snored like a beast.

Not wanting to wake the man, Ellis gathered up his clothing, still piled on the floor where he'd dropped it the night before, with the intent to dress in the bathroom opposite. As he bend over to scoop up his coveralls, he couldn't help but hiss slightly, wincing in pain at the movement. He snatched the clothing quickly so he could stand upright again, adjusting his stance to one that caused him the least discomfort. _Aw man. Gonna be walkin' like a cowball all day, ain't I? _He thought to himself, slowly gathering the rest of his belongings before leaving the room, very conscious of how his footsteps might look.

When dressed, his filthy closed starkly contrasted his now clean appearance. He'd shaved the stubble of that had grown across his cheeks and chin, cleaning the razor and leaving it by the bathroom wash basin, should Nick or Coach (or Rochelle, he guessed) wanted to use it. He hadn't realised just how much the hair on his face had come through over the past few weeks, and smooth skin felt blissful in comparison, once the shaving rash had gone down. His arms still bore battle wounds, however, though most of the bigger cuts were healing over nicely, a burn to the back of his hand where he'd thrown it up to protect his face against a spitter still looked pretty gross, however. Rochelle had insisted he leave the bandage off, get some air to it, now that it had stopped bleeding and weeping constantly. Still, the skin, red and blistered, was not the prettiest sight.

But that didn't bother the Georgian too deeply. He'd never been the kind of guy to get stuck on appearances, and after finally lacing up his boots, he gave his reflection a quick glance, straightening his cap, before leaving the bathroom and walking downstairs with the softest footfalls he could muster.

Everyone else was still asleep, which Ellis was somewhat glad of for once. Walking still hurt, but he knew he had to get rid of that as quickly as possible if he didn't want the others questioning him. Would they guess why he was walking strangely, if they saw? He didn't want to even consider it, so took it upon himself to wander the lower floor of the house, checking the doors and windows for any sign of break-in. All their barricades were the same as they'd left them, and the world beyond the walls of the small-town house seemed quiet.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday evening, but Ellis couldn't quite stomach the idea of food quite yet. He settled for pouring a tall glass of water from the tap, a splash of orange cordial added to it that he'd found in one of the cupboards, and his stomach silenced itself for a time, though he could still feel the ache that always accompanied hunger. He walked and sipped at the drink, until reasonably satisfied that he was walking normally (even if it did still hurt), and he flopped himself down onto the couch, draining the glass and stretching to put it on the coffee table in front of him.

It looked like the kid of houses people had in his neighbourhood back home. A small family place, where the lounge and kitchen were the hubs of the household, the former larger than the latter, in this case. There weren't many photos around the place though, which was a major difference between this house and Ellis' own family home. His mother had all but plastered the walls with pictures of herself and her son, extended family, Ellis' friends, her own friends. She'd been a huge fan of photographs, and possessed albums full of photos, particularly of Ellis. When Keith came over, the mechanic's best friend took great pleasure in asking to see them, watching Ellis' mother light up with excitement as she sat him down, drawing out one of the large annuals from the bookshelf, settling herself beside the young man to talk him through each of the pages. Keith would nod and comment, laughing when he needed to and 'aww'ing at the right moments... but Ellis never missed the glances and smirks that his best friend would throw in his direction at every available opportunity.

He wondered what the homes of his new friends were like. In fact, he tried to recall what he knew of their families. He knew Rochelle was single and had her own city apartment, and he could vaguely remember Coach talking about his elderly parents, so perhaps he lived with them to take care of them. Nick, however, never said anything. He'd mentioned his ex-wife a couple of times, though never in detail. Out of all the group, Nick was the one he probably knew least about. Was that why he was always so interested in the guy? Ellis had a habit for always wanted to get to know people, so Nick had posed something of a challenge to him. He'd never intended to 'get to know' him as well as he had last night, though.

He felt a painful twinge, and decided not to follow that particular train of thought.

He finally settled on reading some of the old sporting magazines he'd found underneath the coffee table, guessing there was definitely a man about the house when the place was still inhabited. Soon enough, he was able to lose himself in the months old articles about car races and baseball games, to the point he didn't realise he was the only one away until he heard Rochelle's foot hit the slightly creaky floorboard towards the bottom of the staircase. "Mornin'!" he said in his usual bright tone, perhaps a little too aware of his attempts to seem like nothing had happened. She returned the greeting, though a little more tiredly, and padded past to the kitchen, her socks treading quietly across the carpet and tiles. He heard the cupboards being opened, and guessed that hunger had woken her. While their dinner the previous evening had been good, it was the first decent meal they'd had in a while. Best to stock up on food while they could, he supposed.

Soon, they were joined by Coach, also clean-shaven. Ellis then noticed how their clothes, while still stained, both looked strangely clean compared to his own. Perhaps he was caught staring, as Coach dropped himself into the armchair, explaining "Master suite got it's own bathroom. We washed 'em in the tub last night and let 'em dry while we were sleepin'. Guess we should'a suggested you do the same, young'un..."

Ellis chuckled, nodding as he looked down at his own blood, dirt, and bile-stained shirt and coveralls, making a mental note to do that when they got the chance. Rochelle was soon in the room again, the smell of toast wafting in with her. "Bread was kind of stale, but still good. It'll taste just fine like this," she explained as she placed a large plate with what looked like half a loaf of toasted bread down onto the coffee table, Ellis's eyes instantly lighting up as he darted forward for a slice, his stomach seeming to sigh in relief that the introduction of real food. Butter had melted into the toasted (and in a few places, slightly burnt) bread, and soon Ellis was returning for second and third slices, though both Rochelle and Coach seemed to be eating with the same enthusiasm, at least. Soon enough, the plate contained only crumbs, and it was all Ellis could do not to lick them up. Coach took it away, wanting to get himself a drink anyway, and Rochelle was soon back down to business.

They needed to plan a direction, she said. Aimlessly wandering wouldn't do them any good, according to her, and she'd soon located a set of drivers maps on the narrow bookshelf in the corner of the room, putting them out on the table and looking over them, tracing her finger along various routes and roads. Ellis contented himself with watching her for a moment, before a clatter on the seat next to him made him jump. "Check 'em over, will ya? Didn't get me much sleep last night, and figure you know your guns better than me."

Coach patted the young man firmly on the back, returning to his armchair as Ellis nodded, smiling, and set to work sorting the guns and ammo piled next to him, retrieving a cloth from the kitchen so he could wipe the blood and mud stains from the metal. He was no gun expert, but he knew enough, he supposed. Rochelle piped up every now and then with route suggestions, Coach just humming in assent, and Ellis picking it up as a thread of conversation for him and Ro to go back and forth about, the morning having quite a relaxed feel to it. A welcome change! Ellis was almost enjoying himself, polishing guns and talking about plans with Ro as if they were preparing for a potential vacation...

He was much less relaxed when he heard a door slam shut upstairs. Nick was awake.

"Finally," Coach had mumbled, eyes still shut as he remained on his armchair, Rochelle smiling and shaking her head, getting up to locate a ballpoint pen so she could start marking her maps. Ellis bowed his head, suddenly very interested in the safety locking mechanism on the handgun he'd been wiping clean. His hearing was fixed on the upper floor of the house, only half-paying attention to Rochelle as she suggested they check out some of the larger towns next, in case there were other survivors or the authorities there, Coach mumbling how finding others might not be the best idea. Whilst they debated the pros and cons, Ellis heard the bathroom door open once more, and the sound of shoed feet on the stairs.

He was sure his face was heating up. He hoped beyond hope that he wasn't going red.

"Someone looks better when they're cleaned up! Shame the suit doesn't wash up quite so well."

The mechanic glanced up, Nick's sarcastic grin sending a small shiver through the base of Ellis' spine, prompting him to quickly grab up the dirtiest weapon on the pile, his shotgun, and setting to work cleaning up. His teeth were tightly gritted together, far too much attention being paid to the reasonably simple task... but he was left to it. Nick didn't so much as acknowledge him, and neither Coach nor Ro seemed to pay heed to the silence between the two men. As Nick stalked past to the kitchen, Ellis risked a sideways glance, missing Nick's face but catching view of his suit-clad back before he disappeared from view. He released a breath he didn't even realise he'd been holding. Why had he become so nervous all of a sudden? His attention on cleaning the shotgun faltered, becoming more lazy again, his mind elsewhere, distracted by the man in the kitchen. Distracted by one recurring thought...

_What's gonna happen tonight?_


	5. Ch5 x Clarification

_Authors Note: Yep, still going. Still not gonna promise how long this will continue, though! I have a terrible habit of getting bored when writing long fics._

**Clarification**

Well, that went somewhat better than expected, Nick thought as he entered the kitchen, making a beeline for the electric kettle. It was half-full of water, but having no idea how long it had been then, he still proceeded to pour it down the sink, refilling with fresh water, and returning the kettle to it's stand, flicking the switch to start it heating. It was a well-practiced set of movements, even if the kitchen was foreign to him. Nick was the kind of guy who would set his mind daily on his starter cup of coffee, and it took a lot to make him skip that part of his morning ritual. Of course, a zombie apocalypse was one of those few things that could make him overlook his daily caffeine requirement, but now that the opportunity had returned, he intended to take full advantage of it.

Of course, he had assumed that one of the cupboards would contain a coffee jar.

Luckily for Nick, the previous family had suffered a similar morning addiction, and it didn't take long for him to locate the jar of coffee granules in one of the units closest to the kettle itself. Several large spoonfuls were placed into a mug, no sugar, and no milk (it would likely have been off, anyway, even if he had decided to take it). Soon the happy owner of a steaming hot mug of black java, he took the first scaulding sip, and sighed with contentment as the bitter taste swept over his tongue. Suddenly, the world didn't seem quite so bad.

Placing the mug back on the countertop to cool a little, he busied himself with rolling a cigarette (pre-rolled packets were a rarity since the infection hit, but he'd been lucky enough to find a large packet of loose tobacco, and papers and filters were easy enough to find), lighting it from the gas cooker hob, to save on matches. Finally, the routine was complete. Nicotine and caffeine finally back in his morning, the day had started with a much-needed sense of normality, one he'd especially craved since his actions of the previous night.

He was trying to forget about that.

It wasn't that the idea of screwing another man bothered him; quite the contrary, _that_ concept was the easiest part to deal with. After all, a fuck was a fuck, whatever way you looked at it, and he wasn't going to subject himself to some bullshit homophobia that only resulted in fifty percent of the population being ruled out as potential one-nighters. That didn't benefit him at all. No, the thing that bothered him was the fact it was _Ellis_, of all people. The dumbass, redneck, optimistic hick, who you could kick in the fact and he'd still smile and forgive you. The stupid fuck who wouldn't have lasted three days of the infection, had he not picked up such capable friends. _That_ was what bothered the conman. Or at least, that's what he figured the problem must have been. In all honesty, he hadn't devoted much energy into psychoanalysing the situation.

He smoked in peace, trying to distract his mind by concentrating on the flow of smoke snaking down his throat, and curling back out of his lips and nostrils. By savouring the much-needed buzz of caffeine mixing with nicotine, the familiar sensation welcomed by all of his senses. The others left him to it, and he was somewhat grateful for that. None of them had been able to take much alone-time as of late, and Nick quite enjoyed his moments of solitude.

He couldn't hide out in the kitchen forever, though, so once his cigarette was burned to the filter, he picked up his half-finished mug, and lazily returned to the living room. As soon as he did, Rochelle piped up with "What do you think to recouping here for a few days, finding a car, then hitting the freeway?" She looked up at his to gauge his response, Nick taking a large mouthful of coffee, swallowing slowly, before replying with "Where we headed?"

She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, turning her gaze down to the topmost map of the pile laid in front of her. "There are a couple of big towns we could check that aren't far. You know, see if CEDA or the military have anything set up for survivors..."

He scowled, but she wasn't paying him any attention to see it. "Then yeah. Let's stick here a few days," he replied, somewhat unenthusiastically. While the rest of the group still seemed sure that CEDA was the final target, and the answer to their problem, Nick was much less sure of this point. More than once they'd come to evacuation areas to piles of bodies, and not all of them seemed infected. Were they the result of actions by their supposed CEDA saviours? After all, they seemed to be riddled with bullet wounds, not bite marks. The whole thing seemed off to Nick, and while the others had shown concern at the time when he'd pointed this fact out, the matter seemed forgotten now. They needed a goal, and CEDA was the only one they could muster.

Not that it mattered. If it came down to it, he could always leave the idiots behind, and let them face CEDA alone. Right?

"Gonna get some fresh air," he followed up, Rochelle giving a hum of assent, and no-one questioning as Nick walked through the room, snatching up his AK from beside Ellis as he went. It didn't take him long to remove the furniture blockade from the door, designed not so much to keep attackers out, but to provide something noisy enough so they'd know from upstairs if something was trying to break in. Stepping out into the fresh morning air, already beginning to heat up as the sun rose higher into the sky, he glanced up and down the thankfully empty street, closing the door behind him, and settling down on the concrete front steps.

If they did find CEDA, and the reception wasn't as warm as the others hoped for... could he really just turn and leave them? As much as he hated to admit it, they'd helped him out a lot, and saved his neck more than once as of late. He'd done just as much in return, of course, but he couldn't get over the nagging thought in the back of his head that, without Rochelle, Coach and Ellis, he'd likely be dead by now. Still, that being said, he wouldn't walk into the murderous clutches of CEDA or the military, just because those morons had no idea of what else to do.

They were smart, though. They wanted to survive. Rochelle worked for a news station, so was more than used to seeing and hearing about corruption, so perhaps finding out CEDA were not the saviour they made themselves out to be wouldn't be so hard to swallow on her part. Coach was harder to read. The man wasn't a huge talker, but he seemed intelligent enough, and there was _something_ in him that was driving him to survive, though he didn't let on just what it might be. Then, there was Ellis. Stupid hick would end up doing whatever his companions told him to do, no doubt. If Ro and Coach wanted to stay, and Nick announced he was leaving, he had little doubt that the redneck would throw his lot in with the majority. Nick was consciously aware of the fact that, as much as he hated it, this idea bothered him for some reason.

The door behind him clicked open.

He didn't bother turning, already knowing who was there. His only response was to exhale with a distinct air of exasperation, the door shutting again, and his new company stepping down to sit beside him, carefully leaving a few inches of space between one-another. Ellis had his shotgun, clean as the day it had been made, clutched in his hands tightly as he settled, eyes latched onto the weapon with nervous intensity. Flexing and relaxing his grip on the shotgun barrel, he remained silent for several long moments, before finally piping up.

"Can we talk?"

If there was one thing Nick didn't want right now, it was to have to clarify his feelings on the night before. His jaw clenched, and he didn't reply. The hick clearly took his silence as a sign of ascension.

"Okay. I'll start."


End file.
